


Love and Some Verses

by arcadefire



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Based On A Writing Prompt, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, MADARA NEEDS SO MUCH LOVE but i didn't give much of it to him in this fic, Madara-centric, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadefire/pseuds/arcadefire
Summary: When someone’s heart breaks so does a piece of our world; this creates fissures, valleys and even cracks in the pavement. This is the story of the Valley of The End.





	1. Here with Me

**Author's Note:**

> I put my Spotify on shuffle and chose whatever song title for this fic and so, the title is from "Love and Some Verses" by Iron & Wine. The story is based on a writing prompt I found on Google Images.

**Chapter title from "Here with Me" by Susie Suh.**

Madara never believed in romantic love. He had a lot of familial love to spare for his brothers and for his clan, but his faith in romantic love found itself waning in the way his father neglected his mother in favour of the clan. He found it diminishing as his father played down his mother’s illness and ignored her cries for help. He found it gone when she became part of the ground and he was reprimanded simply for dropping tears.

The day he stopped believing in romantic love, a crack appeared near his mother’s koi pond. It was jagged and deep, and became such a strong reminder of his loss that Madara began avoiding the pond altogether. It brought too many memories of light-hearted picnics and small ‘accidents’ which may or may not have ended with Izuna joining the fish. 

_Please protect my mother, Indra. May she find her peace._ He wasn’t a very spiritual person, much to the Uchiha elders’ dismay, but grief can make even the most devoted atheists cry for God. Yet Madara had to learn to carry on – Uchiha Tajima was not kind enough to give him more than a few days to heal his wounds. His anger was lava-hot, poured onto unfortunate members of their rival clan.

Madara became a weapon. The clan elders rejoiced over the fact that the clan heir would soon be one of the strongest heads in Uchiha history. His father found pride in his prodigy of a son, who already surpassed some adults. His brother would look up to him and train hard to rival his aniki’s strength. Madara thought his mother would most likely be unhappy – only pain could be the reason behind such unparalleled skill in a shinobi so young.

One day while his father was leading a mission on the Western border of Uchiha land, Madara found himself sulking by the Naka River. Technically, he shouldn’t be here – the river was far too close to Senju-controlled area. But Madara was thirteen, stubborn and frankly had a lot of unresolved trauma he needed to vent out.

The first few stones he threw did nothing to help his mood. _It’s like the whole world is conspiring against me, damn it._

He felt something buzz past his ear while he was lost in his thoughts - his sideburns slightly ruffled by the air - and within the next second, a rock fell spitefully on the opposite bank.

“Just aim it a little higher than you normally do,” said a voice from behind him. _Okay, the world is definitely conspiring against me._

The boy had a terrible bowl cut and – if Madara was being generous – came off as only slightly annoying to him. It was unlike anyone in these parts to approach a stranger; clan wars were rife and anyone could be a trap working for bandits. But Madara was thirteen, stubborn and frankly did not have a lot of friends save for the occasional cat, falcon and Izuna.

“Who the hell are you anyway?”

“The name’s Hashirama. For now I’m just your rival at stone skipping.”

“Well just watch Hashirama, I’ll make it to the other side this time!”

Okay, so Madara admittedly did not take Hashirama’s advice. His throw was exactly like his first ten throws or so; whether it was due to muscle memory or his nerves, he couldn’t tell. Madara blamed it on the latter.

“I’m the sensory type that can’t even pee without someone standing behind me!!”

Their first meeting went on with a few depressive episodes courtesy of Hashirama. Madara honestly didn’t know what to think – if he was anything like that in front of his father, Izuna would surely be announced as the heir to the clan and he’d be duly discarded in the Valley of Judgement.

This was the first time he even came close to making friends. Being raised as the eldest son of the clan leader had its perks – namely being excluded from the social life of other young Uchiha. Discounting his brothers, the only friends he had ever made growing up were his caretakers and the cats that claimed his room as their lounge long ago. His late mother had tried to get his father to excuse him from the hours of daily training in favour of a game of beigoma with the other children, but Madara would just spend time with her instead in his free time. He'd make tea for her and they'd have a game of shogi in her room and he'd give her a pout after losing consecutive games.

If she could see him, Madara supposed she’d be somewhat proud. The fact that Hashirama was not merely a pile of ash yet was progress enough.

His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a body being carried by the stream. It really wasn’t much of a surprise, considering the sheer amount of conflict around the area. He felt Hashirama’s chakra flow to the soles of his feet as he swiftly crossed the river to inspect the corpse.

“This place will be a battlefield soon,” stated Hashirama grimly.

It was unfortunate, but they had to bid their goodbyes. Against his better judgement, Madara gave his name to Hashirama. _It’s not a big problem, there’s no way he’d be able to figure out my clan name._ His gut feeling told him it wouldn’t be their last meeting anyway. In fact, if Madara’s brain was capable of being in tune with his emotions, he’d admit he looked forward to seeing Hashirama again.

On his way back to his house – situated deep in the middle of the Uchiha compound, to protect the head family – was his mother’s pond. Usually, he would walk straight forward; sometimes when he lingered too long around the koi pond, small cracks would form around the crack he first caused after her death. It had been a year, and the fissure had become even more jagged than it was initially. Some surrounding minor ruptures on the earth weren’t his, but Izuna’s. Madara doubted his father contributed to even a scratch on the earth. _Good for him, I guess._

Izuna was not as close with their mother as he was, but he was younger and far more volatile than Madara. His younger brother would often visit his room in the middle of the night, curling into the arc of Madara’s bigger form as he tried to escape his nightmares.

“Always protect your brother, Madara. I believe in you,” his mother had instructed countless times after they found out her illness was incurable.

Madara was suddenly tired, but he walked towards the pond anyway. Red gerberas were planted around the area by Izuna with the help of Hikaku, signifying their remembrance and love. Hikaku had admired Lady Uchiha from his early years and was far more dedicated to her than Uchiha Tajima during her life.

“It’s the least we could do,” shrugged Izuna, when Madara had mentioned it to him.

Sitting on a familiar spot by the decorative rocks and the small maple tree, Madara reflected on his day. He had just possibly made a friend. He considered telling Izuna about it, but quickly decided that that would be the last thing he’d do – Izuna was eager to jump to conclusions and sought his father’s approval far too much. Madara might be barred from ever meeting Hashirama again if word broke out.

Regardless, he still felt like telling someone about it. He didn’t know why it felt important, but it did. It was important.

He sighed. _I mean, I guess if souls were real, hers would be here._

“Hi mum.”

He released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“Guess what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why Madara didn't awaken his Sharingan when his mother died. I assume it's because he knew for a long time that she'd pass away due to the nature of her illness, and so he was somewhat able to prepare himself for it. This is my first time writing anything for the fandom so it could turn out reaaaaaaaaaally bad lmao.
> 
> Leave a comment and do tell me if I went OOC or if you'd prefer more dialogue.


	2. Dream Lover

**Chapter title from "Dream Lover" by Big Star.**

 

Madara’s hunch was right; he would indeed meet Hashirama again. He found him staring emptily towards the opposite bank of the river, probably lost in thought. Madara reached out for the churn of the chakra in front of him - unusually large and wild for a child - and felt its discontented rumbling inside his mind. The chakra flow felt interrupted, as if it didn’t know what to do with itself. Despite only being a little more over a decade old, Madara’s sensory skills were not to be underestimated. He could even sense Izuna’s chakra all the way from the Uchiha compound if he tried hard enough. Needless to say, Madara knew something was up.

 

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing really,” said Hashirama, with what Madara assumed was a pout.

“You can tell me, you know. I promise I’ll listen.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing at all,” came Hashirama’s shaky voice, as he turned to face Madara with tears rolling endlessly down the curve of his cheeks.

“Out with it!” _How have I not popped a vein from this?_

“My younger brother died.”

 

Madara’s breath hitched. _We’re more alike than we thought._ Madara had lost two of his younger brothers to the war and another to a childhood illness. It was just him and Izuna now, and he didn’t know what to do if he lost his final younger brother. Izuna may be brash and thick-headed, but he was also the one who would come to Madara’s room if he saw the lantern still lit, worrying why his aniki had not fallen asleep yet. Izuna was the one he would tutor and train, when their father was far too busy. Izuna was his final living sibling; one that he promised he would protect.

 

“Your name’s Madara, right? I wonder if you’re like me,” Hashirama softly enquired.

“I am one of five,” Madara paused for a second, his voice flat and grim, “or at least, I was.”

It should have felt out of place to be talking of personal matters so openly to a stranger. But he supposed Hashirama did not exactly feel like a stranger.

 

Perhaps he was too young and naïve to truly comprehend the meaning of the war; he had no other cause to fight for but his family. To him, peace – or at least, the idea of peace – seemed so easy: the clan elders on both sides only needed to lay down their pride and shake hands for the bloodshed to end as sure as the sun would rise the next day. But somehow, for reasons that have yet to make themselves fully known to him, peace also seemed unattainable. The stories told to him by the elders and his father drew Peace to be a trick; it would stab you and bask in your death just as easily as it would hold you and deem you a friend.

He was at a frustrating age to be. He was not yet mature enough to quell his optimism on the war’s end, but not young enough to blissfully forgive all the pain invoked by the Senju.

 

Madara usually kept his ideals to himself – he did not expect Izuna to share them, nor did he wish to face his father’s fury if he were to be exposed. But with Hashirama, he felt like he could talk about anything and everything and even nothing at all.

 

“Hey, Hashirama,” he mumbled one day, while they were eating oranges by the river.

“Hm?”

“Do you think we’ll ever be at peace? That the warring clans on this land will ever meet a truce?”

“Ah-,” Hashirama swallowed an orange piece, “-I would like to think so. People can’t be at war forever. It would be stupid to, don’t you think?”

“Why is that?” _War is all most of these shinobi know._

“Well, hm.” Hashirama scrunched his face in thought, the slight pink of his tongue sticking out at the side of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“I suppose, they’ll realise one day that if they lose too much, there won’t be anything left to fight for. Don’t you think so too, Madara?”

“They can fight for vengeance, can’t they?”

“Do you think vengeance brings back what they’ve lost? It only causes people to lose more, in the long run.”

“Oh.”

“Hey Hashi,” Madara continued.

“Yes?”

“Would you want it? Your death avenged, I mean. Would you want to be avenged?”

“I think-,” Hashirama shut his eyes, face turning solemn, “-I think revenge is for the living.”

“Oh.”

 

Even as the war roared and grew around them, not all their discussions were plagued with it. They found a certain lightness in their shared adversity, despite not knowing the other's last name. Madara learnt Hashirama enjoyed carving wood, although he was still practising his craft. Hashirama had promised once he was good enough, he’d make a sculpture of Madara (to which Madara respectfully refused with “You’re definitely going to mess my handsome face up. Don’t even.”). Hashirama also surprisingly enjoyed eating vegetables, much to Madara’s disgust. Their meetings would typically be filled with Hashirama this, Hashirama that, and Madara would walk back home content.

 

“Tell me about you,” Hashirama said once, as he absently waded through the river, cooling his sunburnt skin.

“What?” Madara spluttered. He was admittedly not even half as interesting as he considered his friend to be.

“I mean, you know the stuff I like, right? I don’t know the stuff you like apart from the fact that you can’t pee with anyo-,”

“Okay! Fine! Well, um-,” he twiddled a leaf between his fingers, “I like sweets.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Almost any kind. Dango, manju, mochi, all of it,” Madara made a look of distaste – Hashirama was _giggling_.

“What?” Madara demanded.

“I just think it’s cute.”

“What?” Madara slurred slowly.

“I think it’s cute that you like sweets.”

“Why would that be cute?” He deadpanned.

“I don’t know. Just is.” At this, Madara might just spontaneously combust and have his ashes thrown right into Hashirama’s insanely adorabl- no, _what?_ -hideous face.

“I have to go.” Madara abruptly stood, eyebrows drawn together in self-conflict.

“Oh, why?”

“It’s getting late,” he lied.

“Is it really?”

“Yes, really. See you tomorrow, Hashi.”

“Okay,” pouted Hashirama, dejected. Madara huffed and walked away hurriedly. Did he just subconsciously call Hashirama adorable? He must be lacking sleep, or food, or something.

 

He was angry at himself – for leaving so suddenly, for causing the dejected look on Hashirama’s face, for making things awkward just because a stray thought manifested in his mind. Madara was new at making (human) friends. This was strange territory to him.

 

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would fix this. Tomorrow he would apologise to Hashirama for being so rude. Tomorrow he would tell Hashirama more about himself, and even stifle his annoyance at the prospect of being ‘cute’. Maybe tomorrow he would even bring a hawk’s feather as an offering in return for his friend’s forgiveness. Tomorrow.

 

As he slept, different dreams riddled his subconscious realm as the night grew into dawn. He saw his mother, smiling at him and telling him how proud she is of him. Madara was unsure of the reason behind his mother’s pride. If anything, she should have admonished him. Yet there she was, bright as moonlight and beautiful as the first sunrise. Madara had blinked in his dream, and she had disappeared, and the colours of his dreamscape coagulated to reveal another; one blurrier and noticeably less bright than the last dream.

 

In it, he was a grown man. His hair fell almost to his feet and his eyes were a red he never yet knew. There was a rage in him that felt foreign to his mind, but not to Older Madara’s body. Madara watched like a faraway ghost as his older-self mounted a large, fox-like creature. Older Madara began to charge towards what looked like a large village. Then, almost like magic, a man appeared in front of him, effectively stopping Older Madara in his tracks.

This man, Madara regrettably realised, was Older Hashirama.

 

“Hashi!” Madara tried calling out to his friend’s older-self. It did not work.

“Hashirama,” Older Madara gravely greeted.

“Madara, you have gone too far.”

At this, Madara was confused. What had his older-self done to deserve the badly-suppressed anger in Hashirama's voice?

The dream changed, even as Madara lunged towards his older-self, a scream of “Why” dying in his throat as the scene turned bright again.

 

He was at the Naka River, in his young body once more. The heat of the sun felt too real to be part of a dream.

 

“Who are you?”

A silver-haired boy stood before him, eyes red as the Sharingan itself.

“Um, I’m Madara.”

“Okay. What are you doing?”

“What do you even mean?” Madara’s voice began to rise. This child didn’t return his introduction and Madara was beyond having a bad mood, even if they were not reality.

“I mean, what are you doing here?”

“Why shouldn’t I be here? Do you own this river?”

At this, the child’s mouth took a disapproving S shape.

“Not many people are brave enough to wander around these parts. Whatever. I’ll leave you to yourself now,” the child said, narrowing his round red eyes.

“Wait, what’s your name?”

The child looked conflicted, but even he must too know how rude it is not to return an introduction.

“It’s Tobira-,” the boy’s mouth froze, a white light seeming to appear out of nowhere drowning both their persons in. Madara reached out for the boy, but the light was blinding and he had to shield his eyes, grasping at empty air.

 

Madara woke with a jolt. The only dream he could instantly recall was the one of his mother. The rest were foggy, with only a reminiscent head of silver clinging to his memory like an ant to candy. He knew that something was missing – an important piece meant for the very middle of a puzzle – but every time he teared at his mind, pleading for recollection, it would elude him. It was almost maddening and he was unquestionably going to be upset about it for the rest of the week.

 

Already it was late morning. The sun nearly reached its designated summit in the sky. Madara had overslept and would be late for his meeting with Hashirama.

Sighing, he shook off lingering sleep and prepared for the long day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me so long to post this because I honestly didn't know if it felt rushed or not. I wanted to introduce Tobirama at some point, but I wasn't sure whether he should make an entrance early on or when Madara and Hashirama's friendship becomes fully matured. I only ended up alluding to him here, but idk, something feels a bit off.


End file.
